


Wartime Records: A FE Drabble Collection

by cdra



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cdra/pseuds/cdra
Summary: A collection of scribbles and tidbits centered on the Fire Emblem series. Pairings, rating, etc. will be updated as works are added. Content and quality may vary but I warn you now that I am a sinner who commits dark deeds. Warning tags can be found before each drabble. (also yeah it's mostly sacred stones whoops)





	1. colors [lyon(/ephraim+/eirika)]

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: What he truly desires cannot be found in either of them, but somewhere between the two.  
> Rating: G  
> Warnings: none
> 
> ...I love Lyon and all his horrible mental baggage.

He didn't understand it, the first time something crossed over wrong in his head.

It was after he’d convinced Ephraim to help him learn to fight, so that he could best Eirika next time they fenced—in the moment of the expected crushing defeat that Lyon suffered, while showing Ephraim what basics he did know in the art. It was in the sensation of staring up a lance and into Ephraim’s face: the expression of a man who knows his strength, who revels in combat and all its roughness. No, not just that, Ephraim himself is rough, raw—the grin on Ephraim’s face is the start of it, of the gears in Lyon’s head stopping by way of a feeling he can’t describe.

He doesn’t understand it. It’s a fascinating feeling, one that leaves him wanting to dig deeper—it’s not unlike the sensation of ancient magic in his palms: a bit frightening, but compelling all the same. But for that sensation to come from Ephraim’s steady glare, in this moment when Lyon is overpowered, falling to his knees—that shouldn’t be so.

Ephraim apologizes, though it always sounds a bit hollow; Lyon doesn’t accept it, because there’s no need for it. His friend had been holding back all along, but Lyon is simply that weak; it’s another reminder of the gap between them and just how untouchable it is.

He realized a long time ago that he couldn’t ever be like Ephraim, but it hasn’t ever stopped him from wishing to be. And just the same, he realized a long time ago that he couldn’t be with Eirika, but that hasn’t stopped him from wishing to be, either.

(But what he desires most deeply—to be strong, to be kind, to be loved—he cannot find it in either of them alone.)

It only begins to make sense when he was alone in his chambers that night, the events from earlier still whirring somewhere in his mind. He overthinks, tries to dissect it but makes sense of nothing; his mind wanders, but it always ends up on that same expression, the indignation within himself at being looked down on that way, the fascination with Ephraim’s raw magnetism.

The two of them are both magnetic, in their own ways. Eirika, who’s radiantly beautiful and inwardly strong; Ephraim, who’s undeniably strong and subtly kind. But Eirika is stronger than him in a fight, too—and Ephraim is beautiful, when he’s glowing with satisfaction—that’s where something cracks in his mind, letting their colors bleed together in a way that cannot be undone.

Lyon whispers a curse to himself, running a hand over his face; at that moment, he’d been captivated by Ephraim— _attracted_ to him—even though he still hates facing his weakness head on like that, letting Ephraim see the sheer difference between them. He still hates Ephraim, how he's unachievably better than Lyon, and yet—and yet this feeling is not mere envy, either.

It’s convoluted, just like being hopelessly in love with Eirika but being unable to have her, feeling pathetically beneath her but at least achieving her attention through sympathy. Loving someone, hating someone, calling them a friend—these things are too tightly intertwined, for Lyon.

Perhaps he can settle for idle wonderings on what it would be like to see that fiery, confident gaze in Ephraim’s eyes even as he’s the one on his knees, with Lyon bearing down on him instead—something tinted with darkness around the edges, an impossible and slightly cruel fantasy, it suits Lyon in a way, doesn’t it?


	2. rising [risen!chrom/grima!robin]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: canonical character death, uhh necromancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't even good but #okay

Gods, it _hurts_ ; it came on so suddenly, out of a darkness heavier than sleep, this pain that rips through his body and leaves Chrom desperately digging his nails into his own flesh in search of stability. His voice seems distant as it breaks out, and his shoulders tense upward as he doubles over; he’s already on his knees, body shaking as though it could fall apart any moment. The pain shoots through his every sinew and synapse, a lightning-like sensation that seems intent upon breaking him in order to remake him.

He’s left shuddering, gasping for breath as the pain finally subsides, leaving behind a numb sensation over his entire body; nothing about it feels quite right, yet certainly, it doesn’t feel _wrong_ , either. His hands break his fall so that he doesn’t land face-first in the dirt, but it does little for how absolutely pathetic he looks, barely remaining upright.

Something snatches his hair and pulls his head up, and he’s forced to look robin in the eye—no, not _Robin_ , but what once _was_ Robin, a shattered vessel with a delighted grin upon his lips and a wicked glint in his eyes. His _master_ —the word enters Chrom’s mind before he could possibly find a reason to disagree with it, his thoughts strangely hollow.

“You’ll make a fine poppet,” Grima snarls, tugging Chrom’s hair a few different ways like he’s considering something, careless and cruel. “Oh, the looks on their faces when they see their beloved exalt among the ranks of the dead… imagine how wonderful they will be!” The fell dragon laughs, and Chrom feels as though he should have a reaction to that—yet his thoughts are all but silent, merely agreeing to everything his master says.


	3. fantasy [lyon(/ephraim)]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: vague sexual fantasy, violent/non-consensual ideation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started off with just "haha Lyon fantasizing about Ephraim, nice" and ended up with "hahahaha MAN the demon king sure ruined a perfectly good soft, this is fine".

How he could come to such a state, he has no idea; such logics are unnecessary in the realm of his fantasies, after all, purely flights of imagination which require no grounding in reality. In reality, there is no scenario which would let Lyon have Ephraim on his knees, looking up at _him_ for once; Ephraim with his hands tied behind his back, still glaring like he wishes to fight, but remaining obedient because there’s nothing else he _can_ do. And gods, does Lyon revel in it more than he ought to; something so unreal and sinful, he shouldn’t even consider, but having Ephraim in the palm of his hands is too sweet a delight not to imagine.

Ephraim is far more physical than not, and he would give in to his body as Lyon had his way with it—gently, of course, with soft but meaningful touches that suit Lyon’s nimble fingers. He would strain against his binds and moan, but never beg; Ephraim would _never_ beg, not even in Lyon’s imagination. But if he would, it would be at the end, when he’s falling apart and losing himself—but in that, Lyon is getting ahead of himself.

Ephraim is dashing, stunning when exposed with his scars and all; Lyon has not seen them all but he remembers the ones he has, one on Ephraim’s shoulder, another along his hip. Like this he is even more so, when he’s at Lyon’s mercy, muscles quivering with pleasure when Lyon touches him; it’s strange, that Lyon would not hesitate _to_ touch him, to pleasure the man who he’s most jealous of but—but he would _love_ to see it, Ephraim coming unwound by his hand, under his spell for only a moment.

It’s this that the demonic magic twists, plays with and amplifies in all the wrong ways; he wants Ephraim snarling, battered and defeated by his hand, still bound and exposed and stunningly handsome. Lyon, as he is now, would have no qualms taking him unwillingly, _forcing_ him to come undone; he would hear Ephraim’s protests, revel in them even, but perhaps he could overcome them, damage something in Ephraim’s spirit by showing him a joy in bending to another's whims. Where once he was soft and sensual Lyon’s wishes have grown sharper, a desire to dig claws into Ephraim’s skin and see him bleed—he’s lost so much of himself, to have ended up this way, but truthfully, one life holds no weight against that of thousands.

But as he still lives, he still lusts for them; for Ephraim to fall before him, for Eirika to fall into his arms. The demonic magic would have him break them both, but he knows that isn’t what he truly wishes—even if he couldn’t resist, given the opportunity, he loves them the same as he ever has, just as they are. And yet, if he succeeds—no, they must strike him down once that’s done, but if they’ll stand in his way…? Perhaps it would come to pass; he would like that, call it wrong or not.


	4. brittle bones [possessed!lyon/eirika]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: non-consentual implications, vague torture, possession and Bad Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad.png
> 
> Maybe I'll actually go all out with a similar concept another time on this one honestly. Writing absolute horrible monsters is a little more fun than it ought to be and when those monsters also have hoards of LITERAL monsters at their command... well,

He lives for this, for torment and control; he revels in the pain and despair he can cause, the futile squirming of the insects called humans beneath his heel. There is a special joy to _this_ , though—he supposes it a factor of human emotions, of being too close to this body’s soul to ignore its weak yet desperate pulsing—to having _this girl,_ in particular, bleeding before him, struggling against the grip of one of his Mogalls but unable to escape, her beautiful face smeared with blood and dirt. Yes, it must be something about the fragment of a human soul he’s kept in his claws to toy with; _he_ is suffering, too, that pathetic little boy who released him, feeding the demon king with sensation of despair far more visceral than he’s known in the past.

It’s _fantastic_ , truly—he’ll have to indulge in it while he has the proper toys in his hands, until he’s completely sated, left them broken and beaten and, inevitably, _boring_.

He snags her chin, not feigning sweetness, and looks into her defiant eyes. “How long will you bother resisting, princess?” he sneers, a dry smirk cracking across his lips, twisting lyon’s pretty features into something dark and ill. “All that spirit you have is for naught. You can save no one, not even yourself… yet you waste your energy glaring at me? How foolish.” Foolish, stubborn, prideful; humans are flawed creatures, playing at kindness or what-have-you yet all _weak_ in the end.

The fiend holding her writhes, its appendages tightening their hold on Eirika’s arms and legs, and any protest she might have readied against him is lost in the cry of pain that breaks from her throat instead; he wonders idly if it cracked any of her bones. Humans are fragile in body as well as mind; if he had his own body, he could easily rend her flesh, but the creatures he controls will suffice for what he has in mind now.

The demon king hums, watching his prey’s body slump pitifully as she gasps in pain. “I had thought to simply rip your limbs from your form, but… then, I had the most lovely idea. It’s obvious, of course: it would be far more satisfying to break your _mind_ before your _body_.” He twists a lock of her hair around his finger, a sick mockery of some kind of comforting gesture. “You see, as long as I’m parading about in this suit of flesh, I intend to enjoy it… and it _wants_ you, Eirika.” He chuckles, letting the creature manhandle her into a better position, all the wounds on her stomach exposed and her legs pushed apart.

“So," he can barely keep from laughing in glee as he speaks, seeing the fear in her eyes, the weak and pained trembling of her flesh; "Be a good girl and fulfill your sweet, stupid Lyon's darkest wishes, will you?”


	5. take what's mine [julius/ishtar]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Unnecessary violence, character death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluffy was very insistent on me posting things even if I don't like my writing :v
> 
> Although they can bring heroes back to life in Askr, it still has to be traumatic when it happens... anyway Julius is a special level of mess and I love mess.

She should be stronger than this, but perhaps it’s this accursedly strange world they’re in; he should be able to protect her, but there are too many enemies and he notices the one at her flank a split-second too late. He calls her name, but she doesn’t have time to retaliate despite how she turns on her heel—he sees red, Ishtar’s blood on the enemy’s axe as she falls, and the crimson fills his vision like fire.

With a growl he outstretches his arm, miasma spiraling through the air around him from the tome he always carries. Eldritch fangs embed themselves in the enemy’s torso and he rushes to Ishtar’s side, but there’s so much blood, so  _much_ —something claws at his insides, a feeling he thinks might be guilt or grief or something similarly pathetic, and its presence only fuels the rage that threatens to burn him alive.

Julius clutches her for a few pitiful heartbeats; he doesn’t mind blood in the slightest but this,  _this_ he can’t stand, in a way that leaves him frozen, tense and ready to snap at any provocation. His lips curl back to bare fangs, breath coming in uneven heaves. She can’t die, she can’t  _leave_ him, she isn’t  _allowed_ — _no one_ is allowed to take away what’s his, much less some worthless  _fool_ of a soldier on the battlefield—

The roar that leaves his throat would suit a beast better than a man; once more he summons a rush of draconic magic, the miasma crackling and bursting with force. Within seconds he’s on his feet and his hands are around the soldier’s neck, nails sharpened to points and digging into flesh to draw blood. He’ll show them—he is no one to be trifled with, and no one will stand in his way—his eyes hold the gaze of a demon, a manic rage that nearly glows as he shakes the body beneath him, growling curses and furious denial.

When he rises moments later, the blood seems to have soaked through his very skin; Loptous’s aura fades to a haze, and Julius’s face is void of discernible emotion. A girl he doesn’t quite recognize—someone from his side, he knows intuitively—stares back at him with fear in her eyes, but his gaze goes straight through her to where Ishtar lies motionless.

He stays frozen like that, for a time, as the healers carry her away; he knows the truth, but can only bring himself to deny vehemently that she could be  _taken_ from him.

* * *

He sits in silence, as if some mechanism in him is broken; everyone avoids him, rightly afraid of what may burst from his skin if he were provoked. Julius is not weak, not at all; he is strong, always the one meant to do the taking,  _never_ the one to be taken from. The hollow feeling in his chest is painful, unfamiliar, and it leaves anger roiling beneath his skin; perhaps the other soldiers here can sense that.

And yet, it all melts away in a moment when Ishtar steps into view.

Julius stands in an flash, disbelief in his gaze—this is as it  _should_ be and yet, the tightness in his chest doesn’t go away, and he forgets to breathe in case doing so makes her fade away again. It shouldn’t hurt, nothing should hurt,  _and yet_ —he closes the distance between them on hurried steps, and takes her into his arms without hesitation.

“You mustn’t scare me like that,” he mutters into the crook of her shoulder, voice lacking for bravado or malice for once. His palms clench against her back, holding her tightly enough to nearly hurt yet refusing to let go.


	6. bound (lyon/ephraim)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Warnings: ...bondage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> H
> 
> my friend who rps ephraim killed me so I wrote this

Ephraim is a flame, a storm, a force of nature poorly contained in the body of a man; it’s when he’s restrained that this shines through, to Lyon. His eyes blaze with irritation and passion and it’s stunning, enough that he could easily put Lyon in his place were his hands not securely tied behind his back, unable to break loose no matter how he thrashes.

And Lyon’s allowed to do as he pleases, like this, to touch Ephraim at whatever pace he chooses—there’s a high to it, a sensation of power that Lyon finds anything but familiar. His fingers steadily work their way over Ephraim’s bare chest, feeling the texture of muscles and scars, and Ephraim growls a low warning of annoyance.

“Hurry it up,” the lancer rasps as Lyon’s fingers drum against his hips; but Lyon can’t be made to hurry so easily. They’re close enough that Lyon can almost feel his friend’s sharp breaths, and for a moment, he merely looks Ephraim in the eye, appraising.

“Patience,” he responds, with no lack of confidence—Ephraim squirms in his binds, but Lyon continues with slow touches, a thoughtful attempt to memorize Ephraim’s exposed form. It takes but a moment for Ephraim to show his impatience, leaning forward to bite roughly at the crook of Lyon’s neck—the mage gasps, fingernails digging into Ephraim’s flesh as he tenses.

He can’t really say he minds the feeling.

That said, Lyon’s hand darts up, fingers lacing into Ephraim’s hair and pulling his head back forcefully. There’s a fire lit in those violet eyes now, too, a confident, domineering gaze that might better belong on anyone other than Grado’s meek prince, directed at the one man who Lyon could never win over, fair fight or otherwise, who snarls now despite the vulnerable curve of his throat being exposed.

Lyon takes the opportunity, leaning in swiftly to mouth and bite at Ephraim’s neck, returning the favor paid to him. The way Ephraim groans is music to his ears; perhaps this is what Ephraim wanted, when he said to hurry up, but if it means Lyon can have this flicker of control? It’s worth it, no doubt.


End file.
